Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel

by A. J. B. Johnston

  Madame shakes her head.

  “Here,” he says, surprised to hear pleading in his voice, “the towel please. It is your turn. I insist.”

  Thomas sees her laugh. A snorting sound from her nose. If he did not know better, he’d say she is angry with him.

  Thomas steps out of the tub, his wet feet and dripping body making large puddles on the wooden floor. He grabs the towel from off the chair and wraps it around his waist. “What is this?” he hears himself nearly shout.

  Madame puts a hand on each hip, and gives him a look he has never seen on her face. It is not anger but some kind of pain. “I always knew you did not love me, Thomas, in the way that I love you. But I accepted it. I thought— well, I hoped— that in time you would show me as true a heart as I was giving to you. But you could not, could you?”

  “Don’t be foolish, Jeanne. Don’t talk like—”

  “No?”

  “No, you are all upset. You need to get in the bath and—”

  “Thomas?”

  “I’m getting chilled, you know.”

  “Thomas, I spoke with Monique.” She nearly spits the words.

  Thomas feels his shoulders melt.

  “Merdre,” escapes from his lips.

  ——

  Thomas wraps his arms as tightly as he can across his chest. It does not help. No matter how hard he pulls and flaps, he is still shivering. He cannot get home too soon. He wants to be wrapped in a blanket before a roaring fire. He hopes his numb hands will be able to spark the tinder with the fire steel and flint. Once the charred linen cloth comes alight, with its flames spreading to the kindling, only then will he be all right. Then he will heat a bowl of caudle to warm up his insides.

  Alas, it is still a ways before he will be at his own door.

  Is what just happened no one’s fault but his? By that he does not mean to suggest Madame did any wrong, for she did not. La Beaumont is blameless, except for causing him a serious chill. No, he is asking if the culpability for this afternoon’s event rests with him alone. Surely not. Monique the perfumist must shoulder a bit. Maybe half. Though that is beside the point. It is not an escape from guilt that Thomas seeks. He knows he hurt Jeanne-Marie and for that has to pay. But beyond that, he wants to know if in following Nature – a pretty name for lusting loins – was where he erred? It seems a paradox. Nature is supposed to be one’s guide, yet look where it misled him. Fleeting delight over … over a lasting marriage to a woman he … a woman with a true heart. The words are Jeanne’s and he likes them very much. Except that they make him wince.

  All he has ever wanted is a woman in his life. Well, a position too, but that seems out of reach, so women are now his only dream. And not just any woman, but one with whom he shares a bond. And by bond he does not mean only the act. Calming fury that it is, the sexual union lasts but a short while. No, it’s always been more than that he seeks. The right woman sees in him things he does not, and tells him so. She is a succour not just for his body but for his mind, his soul some priest might say. What he wants is just what Jeanne-Marie wants, but where is such a person found?

  Is there some intrinsic failing or weakness in him? Is he capable of love in the way a woman wants?

  Thomas glances at the clouds scuttling past a three-quarter freezing moon. It makes him think of a Greek play he once read. The drama hinged on the actions of the Goddess of Rhamnous, a darling Nemesis. That seems to be Thomas’s lot as well. To be drawn to women – for there have been several – who are either his undoing or whom he eventually lets down on his own.

  Was today his last opportunity? Surely not. But he cannot worry about what lies ahead, only about warming up. Thomas needs a blaze and a caudle first. The rest always looks after itself. “I’m not done yet.”

  VIII

  Encore

  London – April 1739

  Thomas takes in a shallow breath the instant he sees the seal embedded in the hardened red wax. He knows it well. It is the seal of the magistrate judge from his old job in Paris. Thomas does not delay. He had all but given up hope of a reply, for it has been several months. To his desk he goes for his opener.

  Oh, this is good. Not great, but adequate. The judge still remembers him and has offered a position. Not at the level Thomas once occupied, but two levels down. He would be a simple commis again, like he was years ago. That makes him bite his lip, but still, he has to be reasonable. It is better than anything London has offered him. He will just have to impress and begin the climb all over again. Thirty-nine is old, but it’s not in the grave.

  Still, it would be hasty to agree straight away. He should at least think it over. Measure twice and all that. True, judging by the grin he can feel on his face it seems the matter is already settled, but there might be some angle he is overlooking. He needs to take a bit of time to assess and reflect. Which means he needs to walk.

  The letter goes in the right-hand pocket of his coat as he hurries to lock the door and clip down the stairs. He would not mind telling anyone in the building about the offer he has received, because they would like to know. They would want to be happy for him, whatever his final decision is, if they would only hear his clomp on the stairs and come out to ask what is going on.

  But no one appears at any door, and a pity it is. They are in the dark as to how fortune’s wheel has finally turned for their neighbour.

  The first soul Thomas eventually meets is a long-faced man, a bricklayer by trade it appears. He crosses paths with Thomas as they both turn the corner onto Hedge Lane. The brickie gives Thomas a sour look, which makes the new Paris commis doff his hat. It is sad to see anyone in such a glum mood on a day like this.

  London’s streets are as busy as they always are, but there is no one Thomas sees who would not think it strange for him stop and chat, and hear him say, “Oh, by the way,” as he pulls out the letter he has received.

  So where to go and who to impress?

  He has to shake his head. Coyness does not suit him much. He knows very well where he should go and whom he would dearly like to impress.

  Thomas does not lift the brass knocker. He does not even climb the two stone steps. Instead, he stays out on the cobbles in front of No. 5. It has been months since he made his last trek to this address, and years since he called this building home. More years than he cares to count.

  He steps back and cranes to admire the slender spire of nearby Christ Church. One of Hawksmoor’s finer churches, many times he has heard it said. It is still fairly white from bottom to top, though sooner rather than later the coal smoke will smudge it like it does all else.

  He does a scan of both sides of the street. Up to the tops of the Church Street buildings his eyes go. All is the same. At the top are the glass-windowed spaces where the Huguenot silk weavers ply their trade.

  He sniffs the air, for it is sweet. Then he remembers, the Black Eagle Brewery is only a few blocks away. The sweet smell is hops. How much better than the tang of burning coal.

  Away from No. 5 he starts to stroll, hands behind his back. Something tells him that coming here could be a mistake. These old friends do not want to see him nor hear his news. Not having knocked he could simply retreat. Back up to Red Lyon Street or farther on down to Brick Lane, and then circle back whence he came. He is not sure.

  As he ponders, walking slower than he ever does, he can feel the cobbles beneath the soles of his shoes as he shuffles and scuffs. The slow pace makes him think of the letter he received a week ago from Madame de Beaumont. It came from Annecy, which she informs him is a small town in the mountains of France, near Switzerland. The setting, she asserts, pleases her a great deal, being beside a lake. She says the writing is going well and she is happy, except that she misses him. Thomas was pleased to hear it. But then came the ending.

  All would be forgotten and forgiven, my dear Thomas Tyrell, if You were to come and stay. Annecy w
ould be your home. Of course, you must come alone.

  Thomas was tempted when the letter first arrived, but some instinct told him to delay writing back. Now, well, now, with the offer from the judge, he cannot imagine joining Madame in any mountain village, no matter how pretty it might be. Now he has in his pocket the offer of a position along the Seine, in the offices of a high-born noble who handles the justice of the kingdom of Louis XV. He will write back to Jeanne-Marie and inform her of his news, and he will do so kindly and without even so much as a hint of unbecoming pride.

  Thomas’s slow strides carry him back to No. 5. So Gallatin has painted his door black. Why ever would he do that? That brings a smile, for Thomas knows exactly who decides everything at this address. The mystery is how she does it. Whatever her secret, Hélène always gets what she wants. That is not to say she’s sly, for that is an unkind word. More likely it’s just that Hélène is cleverer than everyone else. Yes, that does make him sigh.

  Does he really want to do this – tell Hélène and Gallatin his news and bid them adieu? For some reason he does. Buckle the buckle, as the saying goes. They were the two people who brought him to this city. He wants them to know that his stay is over. No longer bowed, he’s going back to France. Thomas climbs the steps and takes the door knocker in hand.

  ——

  The hard strikes on the door startle Hélène. She is in the basement, checking how well Pollyanna scoured the copper pots of the kitchen before she left at noon. Hélène holds a cloth dampened with vinegar and salt, to give the pans another few swipes. “Jean?” she calls up.

  “Yes,” she hears her husband reply. His footfalls thud from the salon toward the door.

  “Thomas!” Jean Gallatin nearly shouts. “This is a surprise.”

  “Thomas? What can he want?”

  Thomas’s chest swells to see the broad smile on Gallatin’s face. One never knows if old friends will still care for you when you rarely see them anymore.

  “Thomas! This is a surprise.”

  “Hello, Jean. It is good, very good to see you again.” Thomas adds a clasp to his friend’s wrist as they shake hands. “It truly is.”

  “Come in, my friend, come in.”

  Thomas does as he is requested. Gallatin closes the door behind him and leans close. “Hélène will be pleased,” he says in a low voice.

  Over Jean’s shoulder Thomas can see Hélène has already come up from the nearby basement stairs. She sends Thomas a wink.

  “If we keep our voices down,” whispers Gallatin, “we might—”

  “Surprise me?” Hélène tilts her head back, eyebrows raised.

  “Apparently not.” Jean Gallatin looks at Thomas and shrugs.

  “She’s not easy to fool, is she? Unlike us men.” Thomas nods at Gallatin and sends a knowing look to Hélène. The beige and brown stripes of her dress, with the bright floral stomacher, suit her nicely, Thomas thinks.

  “What a delicious smell.” Thomas makes a show of sniffing the air.

  “Mulberry pie,” says Hélène. “Would you like a slice?”

  “No, no. Thank you.”

  There comes a silence, with all three taking turns to see who wants to speak next.

  “Yes, well,” says Thomas. “I have some news. Good news for once.”

  Hélène listens to them talk, two men who clearly like each other. It amazes her how they can banter about topics that hold little or no interest for her. Whether London is better than Paris; how the English differ from the French; the writers they admire and the ones they dismiss. On every point they seem to agree, and show it by repeating what the other has just said.

  “No, there, you are wrong, I’m afraid,” says Gallatin.

  Hélène chooses to pay attention. The two men are both smiling the way they do when they are about to impart a more correct view of things.

  “No, Jean, you have it backwards,” Thomas is saying with a shake of his head. “It is the printers who make the money while the poor writers, the sine qua non, they starve.”

  Jean raises his right hand, the index finger pointing up. “But money is not the point. Writing is the nobler profession.”

  “Noble is hardly the word. Poor scribblers with lofty ambitions more like.”

  “Yes, but it’s the aspiration that counts,” Gallatin asserts.

  “You’re wrong there. Aspiration and ambition only double the sting of failure when there is no success.”

  “Oh, Thomas, you will succeed. Of that I have no doubt. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Thomas half rolls his eyes. “Time marches on. Listen, let’s change the subject, my friend. I’m curious as to what you think of the Tonson brothers’ deluxe edition of Don Quixote. Good piece of work in your opinion?”

  What surprises Hélène most is that each of these men would be so different were he with her alone. In either imagined combination the topic of conversation, the tone of voice and the language of eyes and limbs would not be what she hears and sees.

  Hélène shifts in her seat and tightens the fabric of her dress across her knees. At this point, she would appreciate it if either or both would simply acknowledge that she is in the room. As it is, she might as well be on the other side of the Thames. Or in France.

  “So, Thomas,” Hélène ventures, “when exactly do you leave?”

  “Hélène, if you please.” Her husband’s expression says he is disappointed in her.

  “I am sorry, Madame.” Thomas’s face is equally grim. “Have I overstayed my time?” He makes as if to stand up.

  “No, no,” Hélène laughs. “I do not mean your visit with us. I mean when do you leave for Paris and the office of the judge?”

  Thomas sits back. She sees his shoulders relax. “A fortnight. I have been given a date I must not miss.”

  “So this … this is it?” Hélène is not sure her question should come with a smile or a frown. She chooses the frown. “Our au revoir?”

  “No, not au revoir.” Thomas gestures to include Gallatin but then swings his gaze back to Hélène. “It’s adieu.”

  “Adieu,” Hélène repeats, blinking fast. “Really adieu?”

  Thomas shrugs. “Don’t you think?”

  “How slow of me.” Gallatin is off his chair. He is coming to Thomas with arms outstretched. Thomas rises to welcome the embrace. “I had not realized the full nature of your news.”

  Thomas watches Hélène stay seated where she is. She has an odd, faraway expression. Sadness? He hopes it is.

  “This is bittersweet then,” Gallatin is saying.

  Thomas finds a focus on his friend’s mouth, then on his whole face. He steps back. “Yes, I suppose that is the word. But that does not alter the essence, which is that it is good for me. And let us remember that it is Paris I’m moving to, not across a distant sea. You two could come back to France, I suppose.”

  “You are right. Who knows?” says Jean Gallatin, though his sour lips say he has no intention of ever returning to France.

  Thomas turns Hélène’s way. She remains seated and apparently lost in thought. Whatever those thoughts are, they look to be beyond the banter in the room.

  Hélène dares not at the moment look Thomas’s way. Every once in a while over the past few years she has wondered if she should tell him what he seems not to have guessed. Or if he has, he has done a good job of keeping it to himself. A whispered word in his ear is all it need be.

  Unless, of course, Thomas might then do the wrong thing. That is the risk. In which case, maybe a secret is best not revealed.

  “We shall correspond,” announces Gallatin. “Just like we used to do.”

  “Of course.” Thomas presents a pleased face. He well remembers how they used to write to each other, but that was long ago. Much has happened since, including Gallatin enticing Hélène away from him and marrying her.
/>   “Excuse me,” Thomas says to Gallatin. He takes two soft steps in Hélène’s direction. “Madame.”

  Her eyes seem not to be focussed anywhere. Thomas takes another step closer and again he speaks her name, “Hélène.”

  “Hélène,” says Gallatin in a louder, sharper voice.

  Hélène stirs and angles her head her husband’s way. “Pardon me.”

  Gallatin points at Thomas, who is standing to her left.

  “Madame … Hélène … I wonder if I might say goodbye to the boy before I leave.”

  “The boy?” Hélène stares at him, eyes wide then narrowing. She begins to blink.

  “Petit Thomas. My godson.” Thomas glances at Gallatin, wondering if Hélène is perhaps not well this day.

  “Oh, of course.” Hélène jumps to her feet. “You want to bid him farewell. I understand.”

  “I … I thought I would … should.” Thomas shrugs. Is this not something a godfather is supposed to do?

  “I’ll go,” Gallatin says. “Tommy likes to play in the attic. He has a few toys up there. You know the space, Thomas. You stayed there when you first came to the city. I’ll be right back.”

  With Jean thumping the stairs, Thomas turns to Hélène. She gives him a slow, disapproving shake of the head.

  “What is that for?” he asks.

  “Nothing” she says. Her face and lips are as tight as he has ever seen.

  “All right then,” Thomas says, with a shrug. “Tell me about the boy. Is he doing well?” He gives her a tentative smile.

  “He is.”

  Hélène shifts in her seat. If she is to tell him, there could be no better moment than this. A few words and it would be done.

  “Robust health?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “Smart?”

  “He truly is,” she replies with pride.